Sex Still Spoken Here: An Anthology

by Carol Queen

  We settled into our seats. They were covered in maroon tweed, and I happily sat next to the window so that I could watch the scenery. I have always loved looking out of windows when traveling, watching phone poles, trees, and towns pass by. I liked being a voyeur, especially when the object of my intent could not see me looking.

  The Turk begin to talk about his latest composition; a lengthy thematic piece about the suffering of men due to their inability to experience the spiritually transformative ritual of childbirth, and the subsequent wound formed because of that lack of power of creation in their lives. He finished the explanation of his piece by smashing two hardboiled eggs together in a grand gesture involving flying egg debris. I had finally had enough. I narrowed my eyes in contempt while smiling; not the easiest facial maneuver to pull off in the best of circumstances, and made more difficult by the clashing of the of the Talwin and coffee in my system. I was pissed off that we were only in Pennsylvania, I’d already needed to take drugs, and that the Turk seemed to have endless vocal energy. I wondered if I could get away with slipping some Talwin in his beverage just to knock him out, but thought better of it. Knowing my luck, it would just make him barf and talk more slowly, and then I’d be stuck with a vomitous, smelly, and even more ponderous Turk.

  I stood up, announced that I needed to go to the restroom, and walked down the narrow train aisle to the end of the car. The train swayed gently, making me conscious of my hips. Standing opposite the restroom door was a woman. She leaned nonchalantly against the wall, smoking a cigar, her black boots spread just far enough apart to make me aware of the line of her thighs as they met at her crotch. She was wearing a worn black leather jacket, tight black jeans, and a white tee-shirt; a butch Marlon Brando, one of my favorite jerk-off types. Her salt and pepper hair was cut close, and she had sensuous curly lips, a square jaw line, and blue eyes. She looked directly at my mouth, and then her gaze traveled down from my neck over my chest, hips, and down my legs. She then looked up unswervingly into my eyes, winked, and vigorously ground out her cigar with her boot heel. Her eyes sparkled with electricity. I gasped. She leaned into the wall, hitching her hip up into a swagger, and then pushed forward to where I stood, one of my hands on the restroom door. We stared at one another. She was incredibly hot, and I’d never fucked in a train restroom. I smiled, bit my lip in anticipation, opened the restroom door, and nodded at her to follow me. We walked into the restroom and locked the door with the metal slide-latch with a smooth click.

  I turned to her to make one of my typical somewhat snarky come-ons, but she was on to me. She quickly shoved me over to the sink, keeping her leather clad hands on me until my ass was resting against the faux pink marble. The sink was stained and there was a faint odor of cheap pine disinfectant in the air. The room was small and felt kind of hollow, like a cave. It would probably be a great place to practice yodeling, if that was what you needed to do during a long train trip with a boring Turk. It was beginning to look like a great place to fuck, too. I was finding it hard to breathe. I had come to think of this woman as “Marlon,” and Marlon had me firmly by the upper arms, with her knee jammed between mine, spreading my thighs apart. She loosened her grip with one hand, unknotted my tie and started to unbutton my shirt. I was getting wet and squirmy, but every time I wiggled, the hard edge of the sink reminded me of my precarious perch. She gave a little whistle when she saw the dog tag engraved with “Sir” hanging on a chain between my breasts. She growled and nipped at my shoulder, pulling my Boy Scout belt out of my pant’s belt loops in one long swing. I love the sound of a belt being quickly removed, and the whoosh of the belt made my knees buckle just a little. Reaching around, Marlon tied my wrists together behind my back in an impromptu knot, the brass buckle dangling against the sink counter.

  She looked at me, smiled wolfishly, leaned forward and kissed me once, pulling my lower lip out with her teeth. I leaned into her helplessly, unable to grab her with anything other than my legs and mouth. She yanked at my belt, which dug into my forearms each time I tried to get closer. I wanted to take off her tee-shirt so I could see her breasts, and contemplated trying to rip the shirt off with my teeth. It looked easy enough to do in the movies, but every time I tried to grab at her shirt with my teeth she growled softly and slapped me. The slaps felt like some kind of tropical flower blossoming under my skin; a quick retort and then spreading heat. It was becoming way too easy to forget my intentions to remove her clothing. The cold faux marble was heating up against my ass. I wanted to open up my ass cheeks and rub my asshole against the counter. I tried to move my wet cunt closer to something, anything. Every spot in my body, every bit of skin, felt so tender and needy. I felt like a cat in heat, but couldn’t get any relief. She had my arms tied back, and although she had my legs spread, she was being very careful not to let my cunt touch anything. She started growling and biting my breasts. My legs were shaking in jerky movements by now, but Marlon was determined to prevent me from getting the stimulation that I desperately wanted. Each breath I expelled became a question, and that question was, “When will you fuck me? When will you fill me?” She pulled abruptly at the belt, causing the brass buckle to clang noisily against the counter top, and causing me to moan in anticipation. The sounds bounced around the small room.

  Unexpectedly, she fell into me and wrapped both arms around me, warming my back and sides. I could smell her armpits and their sexy odor, so close to the fragrance of an aroused cunt that all I wanted was to wrap my legs around her waist and pull her inside of me. Suddenly we started kissing. Our lips matched exactly, and we threw ourselves into the kiss with our entire bodies. We kissed using our lips, our tongues, and our breath. I could feel the sharp bristles of her faint moustache, and rubbed it against my lip, letting the poky hairs send electric waves of desire to my cunt. I must have groaned especially loudly, because the next thing I knew she had her leather gloved hand cupped over my still-pantied cunt. I groaned, “Please.” She pressed little harder, and smiled devilishly. She was pushing full on against me, but it was impossible for me to move any closer or control her movements. I was extremely frustrated. And I will let you know right now that just because I wear a tag that says “Sir” does not mean that I don’t get what I want, and usually when I want it! OK, sure, she was exceptionally hot, but there are limits, and I was reaching mine. I sighed and wiggled more, trying to tempt her into touching my wet cunt.

  Just then, Marlon reached over and pulled my panties to one side. I saw a flash of metal. She had materialized a little pocket knife out of nowhere, and was slicing through the crotch of my underwear. I was having a difficult time deciding whether to rock my hips up towards the blade, or stay as still as possible to avoid any unintended damage to my bits. The choice made me whimper and twitch, but she cut my panties open quickly, leaving the knife to fall to the tiled floor. As the knife fell, Marlon’s fingers parted my labia and she plunged one finger into my dripping cunt. Alternatively slapping my face and twisting my nipples, she added a second finger. I was trying to fuck her back, grunting as I thrust my hips up and grabbing her fingers with my cunt. I wanted her inside, as deeply as she could go. I could feel her adding more fingers, and I bucked up against her hand, begging her to fuck me. She was still growling, and my dog tag dangled between us. By now, she was slapping my breasts, while twisting her hand inside of me. Each slap made me gasp as I opened myself to her. I was opening my chest, my cunt, my mouth, my voice. All I wanted in life, in this moment, was this glorious fuck in this dingy rolling train bathroom; my cunt surrounding her hand, she fucking me and me fucking her. I thought about growly bears and Kathy Acker and the song she sang about the blood of his rose. I fucked Marlon’s hand as if we were on our way to another planet, and we were bears or dogs or some animal, something dangerous and inflamed. Her hand fucked me, and I felt my belly roll, spasms of fuck energy passing up through me as I roared and came. My cunt tightened with a gush of wet spilling up and over.

  As soon as I could catch m
y breath, I started giggling. Marlon was smiling, too. We held one another, slowly becoming re-acclimated to the train bathroom. She untied the belt from my arms, and filled a paper cup with water for me. My throat was sore and rough from so much carrying on, my panties lay in tatters on the spotty floor, and there was a wet spot on my trousers. Her tee-shirt was un-tucked, with a large damp spot in the center. She helped me pull my pants up, I tucked in her shirt for her, and we shared a smoke in the bathroom. We both washed our hands of our sex smell. The mirror was cracked along one side, and there were phone numbers and messages written on the wall next to the toilet. We didn’t say much, but once we were done smoking, we left the restroom together. I waved bye; she turned left and I turned right.

  I made my way unsteadily back to the Turk. He picked up his monologue where he’d left off, later demonstrating the subtleties of the modern avant-garde Turkish movement by complicated paper napkin folding and burning. Fucking Marlon got me through to New York City without having to take any more Talwin. You know, not to get all philosophical or anything, but sometimes a fuck is just a fuck, and sometimes a fuck is a reminder of the power of life. This was one of those reminder fucks. I kind of wished that we’d exchanged numbers, or at least left messages for one another on the restroom stall wall, but we didn’t do either. Anyway, every time I see a train, I think of Marlon and I get hot as hell.

  [go to top]

  “I think the one thing I want to say about my writing is that I really do it to give voice to certain kinds of sexual diversity and sexual desire and pleasure, and I don’t pretend that I cover the waterfront, so if anybody is listening out there and has ever thought, I don’t see very much of this thing in print, [whisper] start to write!”

  - Carol Queen

  Scott Bentley

  Bio

  Scott Bentley’s most recent book is a collection of photography and text: All Around Noise: Studies in Framing, Synecdoche and Juxtaposition (Cariuna, 2014). Some of his translations appear in New American Writing (#18 Lies about the Truth, 2000) and The Pip Anthology of World Poetry of the 20th Century (Vol. 3)—Nothing the Sun Could Not Explain: 20 Contemporary Brazilian Poets (Green Integer, 2003). Poems appear in 580 Split, and/or, Chain, Fact-Simile, Lyric&, New American Writing, Otoliths, The Raddle Moon, Rampike, Syllogism, Vanitas, and other publications. Bentley has an MA (UC San Diego) and an MFA (Mills College). He teaches at California State University East Bay.

  Mini-Interview

  How did you start writing about sex? How does it differ from non-erotic writing? As I see it, in the end every thing holds some relation to eros; as such, most of my writing has some sort of erotic twinge, but I started writing this particular piece more or less on a dare.

  Do you write in multiple genres and, if so, why? I’m not too sure that I acknowledge genre in any real way. Writing’s writing. Good prose, in fact, starts as poetry. I’m not patient enough to believe in time, and stories require that belief in time: beginning, middle, end. As such, well, the story arc’s something I don’t know much about. My latest book, All Around Noise: Studies in Framing, Synecdoche and Juxtaposition (Cariuna, 2014) is a photo/word collage. Moreover, if you take something like the Brazilian martial art of capoeira, well, what is it exactly? A dance, a song? Genre’s a mistake. We all ought to look toward becoming cross- dressers to freedom.

  Swirl

  Scott Bentley

  Excerpt from Swirl:

  Pro-

  Noun

  per (Voice

  en Trapeze

  by Scott Bentley

  … after a while I slip out of your nuance.

  You rise up and turn around, stern toward me.

  And you lock back down onto this narrowly, now

  resurrected cock. His vigor becomes the site of the

  falling out, the look we parted, giggling, between

  friends. Dazzle me with your girly throw

  and catch.

  Let us wed and then, if you wish

  make game on the world

  while I, alone, explore things.

  ///

  We anoint your cock awakening before us.

  We can see the head widen and thicken. I can’t resist.

  I have to try you. Your potlatch in my mansion droves

  lost ranger in the backseat. I lust to pull you inside

  me, fuck you everywhere.

  Slurplick and delightful. A distant harass.

  Or the wing of a hummingbird twang.

  ///

  O, how I want your girlycunt your girlhalf bad boy.

  O, slap it. Slap it against my eyelids, against my

  ass. Slap it, until she throbs and pauses. Tingly wiggle

  seeks sloppy red fuck pole.

  ///

  … and I think. Finding your spot I listen

  to your groundswell fathoming this freedom, so silly

  as you peer up at the mirror. Upon entrance, I tongue you

  into a babble. Uncover the fossils, the facets. She can see

  it all, the last lick and cuddle: the century

  in chocolate. Chipotle.

  I, now can form a question. Do you swear not to tell?

  Wrapped up so cute and I, like your balls, my ass,

  am in

  your panties, boxers.

  This battleground. Undress us …

  ///

  And then with a plunder to peel

  back the prick. Already, the early sunrise.

  Track around her wattage, deeply and hard. Harder. To

  worship at the porch-light of your tribe, strapping.

  From under a veil we reveal your itchy-bitchy dick.

  Flick it, quickly like a nipple. I stick her just a bit

  and blanket planks across his fledgling girth, queer

  across the benchpress. How you must between those

  painted fingertips pinch-hit. I want

  you, a space in bed to polish with wine stain splurges

  as we writhe, writing us

  up, looking

  to be reminded

  just exactly where to hold on.

  Grip us together

  tighter, still.

  ///

  My cock can’t ever, quietly, and quite

  know the limits. To scream and then flare up, slowly.

  I show myself out before you invite me back in,

  bring your profligate down to this level, hinting.

  A salacious scene let’s work out into

  (You’re not—I gather—any longer

  shy in my demise.)

  the magnet of the tide gone west

  with every wild sense, saloon. Lick and suck

  that scampi tramp while I frolic

  at the ridges

  with a girl’s tongue.

  ///

  If you could you’d swallow

  me, make me yours. But physics and gravity defy.

  Our cocks already nearly ruined

  the pomegranate split apart in the squab

  territories, down over the squalid

  juices, flooding your fingers

  sticky seedlings.

  … regions hard as glass. Her legs wrapped around

  his neckline with palms on the bed she leans to. Rush

  me, wanting me further and harder inside this rusty

  mood. You pound and muster.

  We kiss, fainting. Trust.

  ///

  The only one on the runway clad in clear neon jet.

  What if our pussies were sun spots among flowers?

  Huddled in a puddle

  gritty swank to mandate

  a satellite constellates my classmate. Like two lovers,

  shy, in a ritual acquaintance of bodies, bookends.

  The curve of a spine, stuttering at that …

  little freckle

  just off the banks on

  onto her Psalms

  secret spasms

  the way he rises to accept my mouth.

 
///

  Breathless, you say “Fuck me”

  in a whisper; yes, no avoiding the strength of our retro

  interiors of secret obsession in depths of understanding

  that for millennia have brought us to these extremes, one

  body needing to come into another—as if, for but

  a second, beauty, to merge a machine, pumping, one

  only, gasping for air, for more—born again and again,

  direct and singular in loss, gaping, endlessly.

  ///

  Today I almost came right in front of the

  Gap. Right there on the sidewalk. I just want to float

  in this lustpuddle and bathe you at night in my pussy

  dump.

  Get a purchase and grind ‘til I lay there so far

  … you’ll lose your ground.

  My pulse busting sockets, waiting for his dick, his